


Allow Me (to cure what ails you)

by QixxiQ



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Comfort, Common Cold, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Sick Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Whump, magical healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: Sometimes an angel gets sick. And sometimes that angel knows a demon who is willing to lend a hand.(aka five times Crowley heals Aziraphale and one time it's the other way around)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on Tumblr and I'm tossing it up here cause it ended up being softer than I thought it would be.

The first time Crowley finds Aziraphale ill is sometime in the late 1500’s. He happens upon the angel in a back alley, tucked against a building, his face pressed into a piece of cloth and desperately trying to ride out a sneezing fit.

Crowley props himself up against the wall and watches. “Thought you’d try that out or…”

Aziraphale's head snaps up, eyes round and mortified. He mumbles something indistinct and ducks away from Crowley, wiping furiously at his nose for a moment before collecting himself. 

“It’s not on purpose,” he explains, haughty tone absolutely destroyed by the thick congestion in his voice that dulls all of his consonants. “The humans are calling it ‘a cold’. Probably something your lot came up with.” 

Crowley arches his eyebrows in a perfectly executed ‘who me?’ look that has Aziraphale sagging apologetically against the wall. “Oh, yes, well… it’s positively awful,” he says pitifully in Crowley’s direction.

“Seems so,” Crowley hums and pulls himself closer, taking in Aziraphale’s sharply pinkened nose and flushed cheeks. 

Sensing that Crowley might be open for commiseration Aziraphale turns fully towards him eager to gossip about this appalling bit of the human condition. “Everything aches," he begins, more than a bit of a whine in his voice. "I can’t stop sneezing, which is a novel sensation, but I don’t feel like it should happen quite so often, I’ve lost my appetite, my head’s all fuzzy, and, and, oh, I don’t know how they do it, it’s…”

The miserable rambling sparks something inside Crowley that maybe wants to bundle the angel up, take him away from the drafty alley, tuck him in somewhere safe and warm. Maybe there would be soup involved. “Awful, yeah.” He tilts his head. “And you can’t...?” he drags his fingers delicately through the air in a knowing, magical, fashion.

“No,” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “That’s the worst part.” He pauses, sniffling. He gets a bleary look and then shakes it off. “Ugh, no, the worst part is that I can’t breathe through my nose.” He pins Crowley with a horrified look. “What if I can never breathe through my nose again?”

“Well, I don’t think--”

“You don’t know,” Aziraphale groans. “Human’s die from this. Heaven knows what will happen to an angel. I could be stuck like this for, for… millennia.” 

He sounds so positively aggrieved that Crowley can’t help himself. He reaches out with one long finger and slowly drags it down the bridge of Aziraphale’s nose, pausing just a moment at the tip.

Aziraphale gasps at the warm tingle sliding over him and then his breath hitches and he barely gets the cloth he’s holding to his face in time. He sneezes, desperately and wetly, almost unable to take a breath. “Wh--,” he sniffs. “Why--” He buries his face as another couple of sneezes nearly double him over. He peers at Crowley over the edge of the cloth, betrayal glossing his eyes. “Why would you…” He mops up the worst of the mess and sucks in a breath. Through his nose. “Oh.”

A small smile tugs on Crowley’s lips.

Another, deeper, breath. “Oh,” Aziraphale’s eyes light up and he beams at Crowley so brightly that the demon nearly needs to look away. “Oh, thank you.”

Crowley swats the thanks away like it’s an annoying fly. “Just,” he shrugs as he pushes off the building to get on his way before he tries anything else. “Feel better, huh, angel?”

Aziraphale is still looking at Crowley like he hung the moon in the sky just for him, but he nods and holds back another thank you. He takes another long, grateful breath through his nose.

The smarter part of Crowley’s brain kicks in three blocks later when he remembers, with a harsh sneeze, why demons don’t do miracle healing. ”No good deed,” he grumbles to himself as he feels the tightness in his sinuses growing and makes a mental note to remember this the next time he gets the urge to heal an angel.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time is over 100 years later, so Crowley can be excused for not remembering. 

The evening is dank and chilly and Crowley enters the tavern intent on getting spectaurally plastered over gender inequities in Frankish law when he spots Aziraphale tucked away in a dark corner. The idea of having a compatriot in the land of ‘look at what the humans are fighting about now’ warms him and he slides around the other patrons until he’s at the angel’s side. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Crowley grins, all flashy teeth, and sprawls into a chair across from Aziraphale.

The angel startles, head jerking up from where he was bowed over his drink. 

Closer now, and in the wane light of the fireplace flickering across the room, all Crowley can see is tired eyes and drawn, pale skin.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes when he realizes who it is. “Crowley.” He smiles softly before turning away momentarily to cough against his shoulder, harsh and grating and thoroughly unpleasant sounding. “Excuse me,” he faces the demon again, voice torn like he’s dragged it over broken glass.

Crowley winces, aching at the absolutely wretched noise. This isn’t the sweetly stuffy congestion of a bothersome head cold. It's something heavy and thick, like trying to swim in mud.

“I’m afraid I may not be very good company tonight,” Aziraphale warns before ducking away again, this time to catch a few sneezes as they rip through him. 

When he sits back up Crowley is gone and Aziraphale stares at the empty seat across from him, dully wondering if he had hallucinated the demon, until he feels a warm hand snaking over his shoulder from behind and Crowley's voice in his ear.

“A seat’s opened up by the fire, angel.” Crowley leads him across the room and deposits him in a curiously soft chair before disappearing again.

He comes back a moment later and pushes a steaming cup of something into Aziraphale’s hands. “What--”

Crowley huffs. “Drink it, Aziraphale.” When the angel makes no move to do so Crowley leans close and lets his glasses slip down his nose a little, just so a sliver of yellow shows. “Unless you think I'm trying to poison you,” he smirks.

Aziraphale purses his lips. “I suppose not,” he rasps smartly and then takes a sip to prove it.

Crowley can see the exact moment Aziraphale feels the warm tingle start in his chest, easing the heaviness there. His eyes lock onto Crowley's, brimming with painful gratitude. Crowley raises his own glass in a quiet salute to forestall any ardent thanking that might occur and Aziraphale mirrors him.

The memory of Aziraphale’s pleased smile follows Crowley out into the night, wrapping around him like a coat even as his chest grows heavy and his breathing turns to a painful wheeze. As the first cough bubbles past his lips he curses himself for being so sappy.


	3. Chapter 3

It's not quite spring yet and the air still holds the crisp sting of winter, but Crowley bundles himself up and wanders around the construction on Regent Street. Never hurts to infuse some demonic influence on designs in a city.

He strolls for a bit and eventually finds himself outside a sprawling courtyard and it seems as though he's not the only one to have the same idea. 

Crowley comes to a casual stop next to Aziraphale and waits for the angel to notice him. 

Aziraphale startles slightly and then a smile spreads across his face, cheeks flushed with more than just pleasure or the nip in the air. “Crowley,” he breathes in a cracked whisper. His hand twitches towards his throat, but he pulls it back down to his side at the last moment.

Not even the sunglasses can hide Crowley’s wince over the painful lack of voice. “Little rough there,” he points out.

Aziraphale nods good naturedly like Crowley didn’t just make a splendidly obvious observation. “Yes,” he sighs, and this time his hand comes up the entire way to wrap around his offending throat. “Bit of a cold, I think.”

Crowley thinks that maybe it’s more than a bit, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he tilts his head and makes a sympathetic noise. 

Aziraphale gazes at him, almost expectantly, and then his eyes skitter away and he glances around. “Here for..?” he stops, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment, opens his mouth to speak again, reconsiders, and finally just sort of vaguely gestures around.

“Yup,” Crowley keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Thought I might give a little nudge to the architect.” 

There's a small unhappy purse of lips from Aziraphale, just enough to remind him that angels should disapprove of demon activity, and then a nod. “I thought I'd--” Aziraphale’s voice cracks into nothing and he winces before soldiering on. “A little ang--”

“Angelic guidance?” Crowley suggests helpfully.

Aziraphale smiles in a way that says Crowley knows him too well. He continues to attempt to expound, haltingly, gratingly, on heavens ideas for… a park? Crowley really only catches about half of it.

He looks at the sky, at the grass, at a squirrel in a tree. Anywhere but at the angel. He’s not to give in to the urge this time, no matter what looks the angel is surreptitiously sending his way or how wretched the poor thing sounds. 

Aziraphale fumbles suddenly, hands scrambling to pull a handkerchief from his pocket. He leans slightly away from Crowley and sneezes twice. They’re quieter than Crowley’s ever heard, soft and restrained. Aziraphale starts to say something while dabbing primly at his nose, but his breath hitches and another sneeze claws its way out.

Crowley can hear it scrape against Aziraphale’s throat and he can also hear the smothered noise of pain Aziraphale makes and he just can’t. He sighs and moves in front of the angel.

Aziraphale blinks owlishly at him over the handkerchief as he finishes swiping under his nose. 

Crowley slowly unwinds the scarf from around his own neck and wraps it gently around Aziraphale's, tucking the ends into the angel's coat. His fingers skim against the delicate skin under Aziraphale’s jaw as he adjusts the scarf. “Go home, angel,” he says softly. “I'll give Nash your blessings.”

Aziraphale smiles shyly, half buried in Crowley’s scarf, eyes boundlessly gratified as a warm tingle washes over his tender throat.

By the time Crowley gets close enough to the architect to whisper ethereal nonsense in his ear he feels like he's swallowed a thousand knives. If it makes the blessing come off a bit demonic, well… that's just how life works out sometimes.


	4. Chapter 4

The war's been… trying, to say the least. But Crowley's heard rumblings about it coming to an end soon. American demons might have something in the works. Maybe. Crowley doesn't pay much attention to the water cooler chatter.

The thick evening fog gives way to a hellish rainstorm as Crowley drives back to his flat. The weather has driven any sensible soul inside and Crowley enjoys the freedom of not having to mind pedestrians.

Except for one pedestrian. 

The demon slows the car to watch the poor soul hurry along the sidewalk, drenched to the bone. 'What kind of idiot...?' Crowley thinks and then stops. He recognizes that idiot.

"For the love of-" He pulls the car to a stop in the crossing and magics the passenger side door open. "Going my way?" he calls out with just the barest hint of wicked seduction.

Aziraphale, arms wrapped around a package, stumbles to a halt. "Oh, no, I'm--" he blinks some of the rain out of his eyes. "Crowley! It's you."

The demon grins. And waits.

Aziraphale stands in the rain.

Crowley gives him another second before making a vague hand gesture. “You getting in or are you trying to drown the upholstery?”

"Oh, well, I…" Aziraphale hesitates and glances up and down the empty street. "Yes, I suppose, thank you." He carefully slides into the car, setting the parcel next to him. Aziraphale folds his hands on his lap and looks out the window.

Once the car is moving again Crowley looks over at the angel. In the repetitive wash of the street lights, he sees that Aziraphale is pale and shaking, exhaustion harrowing his features.

Crowley cranks the heat. “You know,” he says, conversationally and definitely not as an admonishment. “You’ll catch your death wandering in the rain like that.”

The inside of the car is quiet for a moment and Crowley wonders if his passenger even heard him, but then Aziraphale shifts in his seat, breath catching, and erupts in a wrenching sneeze.

Crowley nearly runs into a light pole. He jerks the car back into the middle of the road and slowly turns to the angel. “That wasn’t a _suggestion_, Aziraphale,” he hisses, briefly horrified that he may have inadvertently willed reality wrong.

“Oh no, no,” Aziraphale quickly assures him and coughs against his cuff. “I, uh," he sniffs wetly. "I suspected I was coming down with something earlier.” He sniffles again, knuckle pressing daintily under his nose. 

Crowley's fingers tighten around the steering wheel, one finger at a time in a slow, clenching roll. "And you still went out," he says, also painfully conversationally.

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. "I had to," he says plainly and a tad defensive, like Crowley had scolded him (when the demon had gone out of his way to, tonally, not). "Angel business." He doesn't elaborate. "You? If you find the weather so dreary..."

Crowley glances at him and then back out the windscreen. "Demon business," he says, shortly. Two can play at that.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, softening into the seat. He pats his pockets and drags out a handkerchief, making a small, disappointed sound when he realizes it’s just as soaking wet as the rest of him. 

Crowley miracles a dry handkerchief into his own pocket and pulls it out with a flourish, presenting it to Aziraphale, who sniffles thankfully.

Their fingers brush as Aziraphale takes the cloth and Crowley thinks the angel might be blushing, but it’s hard to tell under the flush across his cheeks that Crowley only now realizes must be from fever instead of simply an aftereffect of getting drenched.

He's been looking away from the road for too long so he drags his gaze back to the front, giving Aziraphale a small amount of privacy to politely blow his nose. Crowley glances over once to see him trembling harder now, teeth almost chattering.

The urge curls through his chest. It makes him want all kinds of terrible, unseemly things, like softly and gently putting Aziraphale to bed, running a cool cloth over his forehead, and bringing him tea. Terrible. Crowley urges the car to pump out even a fraction more heat. 

Minutes later he pulls in front of the bookshop and shuts the engine off. 

They sit in the sudden silence, Aziraphale making no move to leave.

They sat like this after the church and have sat like this a few times between then and now. Every time, Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he wants to say something, brimming but unsure and running the numbers over the outcome. 

His lips part, drawing in a ragged, congested breath. "Crowley, I…" His eyes are wide and glassy, shining in the street light.

Crowley’s fingers itch as he stares back and now, this time, he reaches towards Aziraphale.

There's a wild moment where Aziraphale looks, in turns, hopeful and terrified as Crowley's fingers brush a wet curl off his forehead. As Crowley lets the backs of his fingers linger to gauge the angel’s temperature Aziraphale's face settles on a kind of resigned realization. “Oh,” he shifts slightly back, but not enough to break contact. “You don't need to bother...” 

It's quiet and so Crowley responds equally as quiet. “S’no bother.” The skin under his fingers is burning and the rain outside is patting against the car and they're wrapped in a kind of dark intimacy that stretches for eternity within seconds. 

“You're too hot, angel.” Crowley murmurs, the backs of his fingers caressing closer to Aziraphale's temple.

Aziraphale's eyes flutter shut and then snap back open, widening as he stares, glazed, at his reflection in Crowley’s dark glasses.

He pulls away with a full body shiver as a warm tingle washes over him.

Crowley watches as the heavy, sickly color begins to fade. "Azira--" His hand is still out as Aziraphale leans even farther away and fumbles for the door handle.

"Yes, well... thank-, uh, I do apprecia-" a strained smile flickers on his face as he stumbles over his words. He finally manages to get the door open and slips out. Aziraphale almost hesitates uncertainly as he leans back in, but then he picks up his package and pulls back. "'Night then," he says as the car door shuts.

"'Night then," Crowley repeats. He waits, watching until Aziraphale is through the door of the bookshop. And then he waits a minute or five more before driving off.

He's already dizzy with fever by the time he manages to drag himself into his flat. 'This was a mistake,' Crowley thinks dully as he collapses onto his bed. 

The next week is hell as he burns and tosses and sweats, but he doesn't regret it when the next time he sees Aziraphale the angel has a quiet, profound gratitude pouring off of him.


	5. Chapter 5

The apocalypse is averted and the world doesn't end and winter, when it comes, unbothered with humanity's near demise, blankets London in white softness.

Crowley wasn’t expecting anyone when the knock came, but he’s not entirely surprised when his angel is on the other side. Crowley had slouched just inside his flat and raked his eyes over a not at all well looking Aziraphale on his doorstep holding a bottle of rather expensive wine. 

“You should have stayed in bed, angel,” Crowley had said, softly and sympathetically.

“Oh, well, you see,” Aziraphale had explained, pausing to stifle a sneeze into his shoulder. “It wasn’t nearly this bad earlier, and you did say you wanted to try the latest Sauvignon.” He had come close to batting his eyes at Crowley. “I thought, perhaps…”

Crowley hadn’t fancied drinking wine through a head cold, but with the way Aziraphale was looking at him, hopeful and encouraging but unwilling to outright ask, Crowley’s fate was almost certainly sealed.

Another option had suddenly presented itself, however, when Aziraphale pitched forward in a harsh sneeze that had left him swaying and groaning and rubbing his nose to an even more intense pink. 

That familiar urge had snuck up on Crowley and practically forced him to the angel’s side to wrap an arm around the warm, solid waist and lead him into the flat. “Let’s get you inside, hm?” he’d suggested, voice low and tender. His fingers had curled around the neck of the bottle of wine and pulled it from Aziraphale’s slackening fingers. “The wine will wait,” he’d assured as he had eased the angel onto the couch and covered him with a throw.

That was three hours ago.

Now Crowley stands quietly in the kitchen making another cup of ginger honey tea and Aziraphale is sniffly and congested and half buried in a whole nest of blankets on the couch. As he stirs another spoonful of honey into the cup he can hear Aziraphale hitching through a flurry of sneezes. They were becoming relentless and turning Aziraphale away from his willingness to indulge Crowley his caretaker role.

Still, a fond smile plays across Crowley’s lips as he comes around the back of the couch and adjusts the blanket around the angel's shoulders, smoothing it down so there's no chance of a draft. Not that the fire crackling softly in the (newly miracled) fireplace would ever even consider letting that happen, not if it knew what was good for it. 

Crowley hands over the cup of tea as he steps over the angel’s propped up feet.

Wrapping his hands around the warm cup Aziraphale waits a moment before he takes a sip. He makes a pleased noise at finding it not too hot to drink immediately as Crowley drapes himself over the other end of the couch that maybe he miracled into more of a tight loveseat when Aziraphale had mentioned still being terribly chilly. Shared body heat and all. “Warm enough?” He glances at the fire and it pulses out a cozy burst of warmth, just in case.

“Oh yes, thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale commends. He wriggles a bit and takes another sip of tea before his nose begins to scrunch and twitch. He takes a shuddering breath and Crowley darts forward to pluck the cup from the angel’s hands before it ends up dropped and shattered on the floor, a casualty of Aziraphale’s sneezing.

He waits until the fit is over and offers out the cup with a cocked eyebrow. 

Aziraphale takes the cup back, glancing briefly at Crowley. “It wouldn’t be quite so awful,” he begins, a hint of wheedle in his voice, “if it wasn’t for so many sneezes.” He looks to Crowley again and sniffs, rubbing under his nose with a finger when the itch doesn’t subside. “Oh dear.” Aziraphale’s breath hitches again and he distractedly hands the cup back over, barely getting a handkerchief in place before another round of sneezes overtake him.

It’s the groan afterward, the thought that Aziraphale is more uncomfortable than simply tired of dealing with his cold, that gets to Crowley and he leans to close the gap between them. "Aziraphale," he says solicitously, indulgently, his hand ghosting along the angel’s cheek to direct his attention.

It must show on his face because Aziraphale perks up a little and leans closer, allowing Crowley to cup his face with his hands. He waits, pliant, eyes drifting shut.

Crowley leans even closer and then presses his lips softly against Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale makes a noise that would have been a disapproving "oh" if his mouth wasn't occupied and tries to pull away, but Crowley curls his fingers around the nape of his neck and gently holds him there for another moment before Aziraphale feels the familiar warm tingle spread through him. He makes a much more approving noise, even leaning enthusiastically into the kiss.

Eventually, they break and Crowley eases back. A sly, cocky grin slips over his lips as he basks in the glowing adoration shining in Aziraphal's eyes as the angel settles back into his blankets, his nose no longer having the deep seated itch it did only moments before. It always happened like this, with whatever was bothering him the worst going first and leaving the rest of his symptoms to slowly dissipate like water from a bathtub with a partially clogged drain. It was a wonderfully unique experience. So unlike angelic healing, which always happened suddenly and all at once.

Crowley gets himself comfortable on his end of the couch, his own nose already beginning to itch, far back in his sinuses and slowly working its way forward. He absently rubs a finger under his nose as he basks in the contentment radiating off of Aziraphale.

Then he sniffs and rubs a little harder. It’s coming on faster than he thought it would. 

The first sneeze catches him off guard and he doesn’t have the time to miracle himself a handkerchief before it’s tearing out of him. He groans into his hand as two more sneezes harshly follow the first.

“Crowley!”

He blearily turns to Aziraphale, who looks absolutely shocked and a little horrified. “What?” He asks while he rubs at his nose, trying to block the next volley. “Ugh,” he sniffs. 

Aziraphale doesn’t move. He stares, eyes wide and distressed. 

“What, Aziraphale?” Crowley tries again. His nose is running and he has to sneeze again and Aziraphale is still staring at him. Crowley cocks his head, entirely confused. “Did you want it back?”


	6. Chapter 6

This wasn't going the way Crowley had imagined. Not that he had ever, through the centuries, entertained a single thought about what Aziraphale might do if he ever found Crowley desperately ill. Definitely never thought, when at his worst, about angelic warmth or gentle hands or blue eyes full of care and worry. That would be unbecoming of a demon.

Aziraphale has been nigh unconsolable through Crowley's attempts at explaining and assuring and promising that what he had done, had always done, was a perfectly acceptable course of action given the circumstances.

But none of it is going over well and Crowley is getting muzzier by the second. "Aziraphale,” he grits out after another wretched sneeze and looks at the angel a bit desperately.

“Oh dear, let me…” 

Crowley pulls back as Aziraphale reaches for him. “You taking it back was a joke, angel.”

Aziraphale blinks. “I wasn't--" he's cut off by a vicious sneeze from Crowley.

"Oh." Aziraphale purses his lips. He miracles a handkerchief and holds it out to Crowley unceremoniously. “Here.”

Crowley stares at it and at Aziraphale in turns. “Thanks,” he says, stuffy and flat, before taking it to scrub at his nose.

“You really should have told me,” Aziraphale’s taken on a chiding tone now.

“What did you think I did with it, Aziraphale?” Crowley blows his nose roughly. “Binned it?” he gasps, but another sneeze doesn't come. “It has to go _somewhere_.”

“It’s not the way angels do it,” Aziraphale says, a little too high and mighty for Crowley's throbbing head.

“Still goes somewhere,” he mutters darkly into the handkerchief. Doesn’t do to smite all of the almighty’s pathogens into nonexistence after all. Crowley’s not sure where angels get to relocate disease, being forced to sully their own bodies with it is a demon’s lot, so they probably send it to a nematode or something he decides, mind meandering and unfocused.

“Well, if I had known you kept it I would have just cured it myself,” the angel says, sounding thoroughly aggrieved and vaguely disappointed in Crowley.

Crowley goes incredibly still and then raises his eyebrows. “You can’t,” he reminds him.

Aziraphale ruffles. “I most certainly can.”

Crowley’s eyebrows raise farther. “You _can’t._” There’s a darkly suspicious warning swirling beneath the statement.

"Of course I…" Aziraphale frowns, mind racing over centuries worth of conversations trying to find what would have given Crowley the idea that-- oh. Oh no. The first time Crowley had done this for him, way back in 15whatever. “Oh.” His eyes widen as he stares at Crowley and a blush crawls up his neck, burning his cheeks. “Oh, well, you see…” His fingers wind around each other nervously. “When I said… heaven would have been very… and there’s so much paperwork when it’s your... it really takes so much… so I…” He swallows haltingly. “I simply _couldn’t_,” he finishes, slightly plaintively. 

Crowley gapes, eyebrows in his hairline. He gears up to say something, but then his breath hitches and he’s forced to bury his face in his hands as a flurry of sneezes leaves him a gasping mess.

Aziraphale takes the fortuned sneeze reprieve to step forward and, as Crowley raises his head, sniffly and breathless, he taps the demon on the forehead.

It’s a bit like being in an air tunnel on the top of a mountain, all power and rush and Crowley’s ears ring for a moment when it’s over. 'Poor nematode,' Crowley thinks, dazed by the unpleasantly hollowed out feeling of his sinuses being miracled clear. 

“Who wants wine?” Aziraphale asks suddenly, the words spilling out of him overly loud and followed with a wild grin plastered across his face. “Brilliant idea, yes? Now that we know what we… both can do?” He titters and pops out of the room before Crowley has a chance to say a single word.

For a moment Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has, perhaps, popped out of London entirely, but he hears him banging around a bit in the kitchen, no doubt trying to locate Crowley's sparse collection of drinking accouterments (or having a small mental breakdown, Crowley decides to stay out of it either way). He cracks his neck, returning the couch to its normal length, and shamelessly sprawls over the extra space. “You better be bringing back more than just the one bottle, angel,” he directs towards the kitchen.

When Aziraphale comes back, trying his best to look unencumbered by this recent newfound knowledge, with one bottle and two glasses Crowley slowly reaches up and relieves him of the bottle. In one fluid motion, he pulls the cork and tips the bottle to his mouth.

“You really should let that brea--oh,” Aziraphale swallows his words as Crowley locks eyes with him and proceeds to drink the entire thing in one go. He takes the next one that Aziraphale miracles too, drinks half, and then pulls the glasses out of Aziraphale’s hands. He pours the rest of the wine out, one glass for himself and one for Aziraphale, and waits for the angel to take a seat before raising it up. “To things we know,” he toasts with a laboredly jaunty grin.

By the end of the third bottle, Crowley changes the couch back to loveseat size, if only to get Aziraphale away from being morosely curled in his own corner.

By the end of the fifth bottle, Crowley decides that the whole situation is hilarious. “You're really something, angel,” he giggles into Aziraphal's neck after throwing an arm around the angel's shoulders. "Really something."

They finish off another bottle and a half before Aziraphale also, finally, manages a laugh.

Months pass and winter gives way to an unusually rainy spring. Crowley hasn’t particularly minded it as it allowed him extra puddles to run through with the Bentley. People who get splashed by a careless motorist tend to pay that forward. He might not report to hell anymore but, well, he supposes, you can take the demon out of hell but not hell out of the demon.

“Absolutely dreadful weather,” he announces with a wide grin as he bursts into the bookshop, errantly shaking off the few raindrops that managed to land on him.

Aziraphale, who had just taken a rather large sip of tea, chokes in surprise and quickly turns away coughing. “Crowley.” He clears his throat and takes a breath, smoothing down the front of his jumper before he turns back. “I didn’t expect you today,” he says, not _entirely_ unkindly. 

“Well,” Crowley drawls, trailing about the shop. “I thought maybe since you’ll have no customers in this storm…” 

“A miracle,” Aziraphale interjects.

The demon nods. “A truly divine blessing,” he intones ironically before slinking closer to the counter Aziraphale is sitting behind. “Thought you might want to close up early. Grab a bite?”

It’s normally a no effort temptation, but this time Aziraphale balks and pulls away, fussing with a few books that don’t need to be rearranged. “I would,” he says, voice full of polite regret. “But I really have so much to do here.” 

“We could do takeaway,” Crowley suggests, not picking up the hints to leave that Aziraphale is laying down. “Make someone deliver.” He leans against the counter and smiles devilishly up at the angel.

But Aziraphale isn’t taking the bait. “I’m really quite bus--” He turns away a stifles two quick sneezes into his fist. When he turns back Crowley has taken up more real estate on the counter and is studying him, head tilted. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wishes the demon didn’t constantly wear his sunglasses, as he’d very much like to see the eyes looking at him.

“Are you…?” Crowley beings to ask.

“Leave it,” Aziraphale doesn’t exactly snap, but it’s close.

Crowley tilts his head the other way. “Why don’t you just…?”

Aziraphale takes a long breath. “It’s not worth the effort,” he says, a simple plea to move on. Their respective sides were mostly leaving them be, but sometimes one got the feeling that certain miracles could attract the wrong kind of attention.

Crowley leans forward, intently studying Aziraphale’s face. “Let me take it,” he says softly.

“Oh no. Absolutely not.” Aziraphale swiftly rises to his feet.

Crowley holds out a hand to stop him. “Wait,” he says, all slinky smile and flashy teeth. The demon leans across the bookshop counter, hand slowly snaking towards Aziraphale.

"_Centuries_, Crowley," Aziraphale says, anguish dripping off the words. “I won’t--.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, sweet and warm and dangerous. “Angel,” he says, gentle and kind and tempting. “Let me take it,” he offers again as his hand glides closer to Aziraphale. “And,” he says, to forestall any argument. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“How would I…?” Aziraphale trails off as Crowley lets his glasses slide down his nose a bit. He pins him with a flash of yellow, raising his eyebrows and all but winking playfully. “Oh,” Aziraphale’s commitment is wavering. “But you’ll feel _awful_.”

Crowley’s fingers wrap around Aziraphale’s hand and he gives the angel an encouraging, tender squeeze. There’s a war in Aziraphale’s eyes, but Crowley can feel the moment Aziraphale decides, closing his eyes with a small nod.

Aziraphale hasn’t given him any direction towards what feels worse, so when Crowley heals it’s aimless and all encompassing and his head reels with a sudden rush of _unwell_. “Hngh,” Crowley says eloquently.

“I told you,” Aziraphale sighs, remorse coating his words as he moves around the counter to Crowley’s side. “You really shouldn’t have…”

“Nah,” Crowley mumbles and sways. “It’s good. ‘M not sure how you were standing though.” His chest feels like lead and his head feels like someone’s poured hot concrete in it and it’s all coming on too fast, but then Aziraphale wraps an arm around his waist and Crowley sags a bit, foolishly grateful for it all. 

As Aziraphale guides him to the back of the shop, to a soft couch and warm blankets and a cup of hot tea, Crowley stumbles, a little more than absolutely necessary, but Aziraphale tightens his hold, careful and loving and unwilling to let him fall. Crowley makes a mental note to remember _this_ the next time he gets the urge to heal his angel.


End file.
